Mistress of the Labyrinth
by shrinkingcylamen
Summary: A collection of Greek Mythology stories.
1. Chapter 1

Full credit goes to the-lito on livejournal.

* * *

Sometimes—

now, since the wedding and the fateful cup—

she dreamed of lives she'd never lived. Where she wore capes of velvet, layered skirts of silk and satin, tight bodices that laced up in back. Her hair was in tight ringlets, shorn away for wigs, crimped in short finger waves. The people spoke to her in French, in German, in southern twangs, in Gaelic, in ancient Greek. There were balls and wars and steamships on muggy twilight rivers. She could see back through the storied past, could almost think she was breathing and laughing and walking beside people centuries dead. The sunlight and rain and breeze and dust and smoke felt so real against her skin.

Then she'd awake, still in her spacious bed in their luxury apartment. He would be stretched out beside her, chest rising and falling with reassuring steadiness, and she would curl close and savor the heat from his body. It was hard sometimes, in that moment between dreaming and waking, to remember just what was real. But Dionysus was like a life-line. The reassuring tether between the memories she should not have and the new life that she had never thought possible. Not in all of her dreams before.

One night she jumped awake violently—snapped from a vision of poker chips scattered across a green table, the smoke of cigars hanging heavily beneath the swinging lanterns, her gold satin skirts pressing against her thighs as she sipped a grimy glass of gin. There had been a man in a weathered, frayed hat across the table, brim pulled low to cast his eyes in shadow, and as the dark gentleman at her side, a man she would have sworn wore Dionysus' face, had reached forward to scoop up his winnings the shadowed man had drawn a revolver from his holster and pulled the trigger. The sharp pop of the gun had been deafening, and as she opened her mouth to scream she found herself staring up at a lofted ceiling.

This was no dusty saloon in the Old West. She was safe in her clean bedroom, in her four-poster bed. And her husband still lay quietly beside her. There had been no gunshot, no blood, no terrible wound to staunch with a kerchief.

When she turned to him she discovered that he wasn't asleep after all; the dim moonlight glittered off his dark eyes as he stretched out an arm to encircle her waist.

"Bad dream, Slim?" he murmured.

"Something like that," she said, letting him draw her in closer. She pressed her face to his wrinkled t-shirt, breathed in the clean, masculine scent of his skin. There was always a vague smell of wine about him no matter how much aftershave he used, but it wasn't the bitter, stale scent of booze most drunks wore. He smelled like a vineyard at the height of summer, earthy and warm and soothing. When the vines hung low and the grapes were begging to be pressed.

"Been having a lot of dreams lately?"

"A few," she confessed without much hesitation. "I've always been a vivid dreamer."

"Anything different about these, though?"

She shifted to look into his face. "You're either a very smart fisherman or you already knew there'd be something to take that bait."

"Well, you _are_immortal now," he said, giving her that half-smirk that was so patently his. "A change like that, it's bound to have some unusual side effects."

"Does this happen to everyone?"

"Sugar, I honestly can't say, since I've never had such a transitional period. I bet Psyche could clear up matters a bit on that count, though."

"It's just so… Frightening," she said after a long pause for thought. She took one of his hands and stared at it, studied it—the lines across each knuckle, the curve of his nails. A normal, average, very male hand. Nothing there to hint that it belonged to a _god_, the embodiment of revelry and alcohol, a being thousands of years old disguised as a handsome playboy.

"Frightening?" he echoed softly as he slid those fingers between hers, pressing gently until their hands had folded into a fist.

"It's overwhelming when I actually stop and think."

"Oh, I never recommend doing that."

"I know." She smiled, a quick flash of white teeth in the semi-darkness. "But we can't all be social butterflies, Steve. I'm no stranger to introspection. Used to be a time when all I did was think and sing. And dream. About the things I would do, the places I'd see, the people I'd meet. When I was free from the past and my father. Our fucked up family legacy. Thing is: I never dreamed of this. You. Living forever. How do you do it?"

He was quiet. She started counting his breaths by each rise of his chest. At eighty-eight, he spoke.

"It was different before. Before the Pact, I mean. Time was a whole 'nother beast for us. Like a waterfall. And now it's a dripping faucet. It flowed so quickly. Before. Our minds, brains, consciousness—whatever you call it—didn't do so well with particulars. It was always people, rarely a person. Always seasons, never days. It took a lot of effort to focus on one moment. It was like… Feeling everything and nothing all at once. The power consumed us and carried us along, and we never really questioned that. We did our duties because we _were_our duties, but it was a lot of blind impulse and brute force. It was for me, anyway. Maybe it was different for the others. It was probably different for them. Eros was different, I think. Athena. Artemis. Hephaestus."

He sighed heavily. Lifted their joined hands. Watched the moonlight glint off her engagement and wedding rings. His thumb caressed hers, sliding down slowly to rub gentle swirls across the skin.

"Now it's like… Breathing. I can't remember breathing before. The feel of it. The weight of it. And heartbeats. I can count them, when before it was like a hummingbird's. Everything's been reversed. To taste the true power, what it was like on Olympus, I have to focus every bit of myself—and it only lasts for a fraction of a second. Now, I can feel it in my throat sometimes. But my blood doesn't burn with it. And… I think that's a good thing. I feel more now that I can't feel everything. I can appreciate, and understand, and really see. I lived thousands of years before the Pact, and I could tell you everything I remember from those millennia in an hour. But since the Pact? It would take a lifetime to recount all of that. I think that's why we've lasted. Because we weren't built to remember, not the way mortals do. Time's slower since the Pact, and the feelings and experiences are more solid and vibrant. But even now I sometimes—for a heartbeat, or a blink of an eye—can feel the flow of the universe. And it's like a rush of cold air on a hot day. Or a glass of water on the beach. It gives me relief and strength, and that helps, too. It pushes back the press of time and makes everything new again. And that's how I live now. Day to day, beat to beat. Next to you. With you in my arms."

Tears were prickling the corners of her eyes and she couldn't even say why. It was his tone of voice, longing and wistful and sad and sincere, so unlike his usual flippant, suggestive cadence. And the words as they flowed over her made her feel and see everything he described, until her heart felt close to breaking. The softness of his touch, the way he stared at their hands with over-bright eyes in the intimate shadows of their bed…

She had never seen him like this. He was suddenly a stranger in their familiar bed, a much younger, frailer man awed by something so great even he could hardly understand it. The powerful deity was stripped away, all of his knowing air and smug confidence pulled back to reveal the purely mortal half created in the signing of a fateful agreement. _Here_was the man, not the god, that she had known lay beneath—the man she'd married, not the god she'd made love to that first night.

"…And now that I think about it, guess I _have_gone through a transitional period, huh?"

Ariadne pushed herself up on her free arm. Leaned over her husband. Kissed him gently; then with growing pressure. He let go of her hand only to take hold of her shoulder, then cupped her flushing face in warm palms. His fingertips brushed the edge of her ear as his tongue slid over her lips, feather-light and so delirious—and then they were tangling together, arms and legs and fingers, her raven hair catching in his eyelashes.

"I love you, I love you. All of you," she whispered against his neck, breathless and aching, dizzy with the touch, the smell, the taste of him. "You're worth it, you're worth everything, any price."

"Eternity?" he said. "Forever?"

"Only with you. Immortality would be pointless without you."

His hand was at her hip, pressed against the waistband of her yoga pants, but it was gradually moving upwards. The fabric of her shirt bunched up, lifted, and his fingers were so, _so_warm against her back. He moved so gradually it sent shivers through her bones, and then his hand was ghosting over her belly, her ribs, before reaching the swell of her breast. He drew a line around the curve with the pad of his thumb. She couldn't help but sigh.

"I'm yours, sugar. You're mine. This is ours. We're a matched pair now. Thick and thin, pale and flush, better and worse."

"Always," she agreed, pulling away to tug the shirt off over her head.

He looked up at her. The way the moonlight framed her shoulders and caught, glittering, in her tousled hair took his breath away. Made his heart race. She'd always been pale, iridescent, in the dark. But since the wedding and the Ambrosia she glowed with an inner light, a light to match his own. He knew he burned too brightly sometimes, too hot and harsh and overbearing, his passion consuming the way a fire devoured forest. But she was more like moonlight; yes, the same moonlight that haloed her now. A more forgiving, soothing light that cradled rather than scorched.

"Fuck me, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmured, with such soft sincerity that her heart leapt beneath her ribs.

Men had said as much before, but she had never truly believed it, not when all they really wanted was a quick fuck backstage in between sets, not when they made promises emptier than her bed in the morning. Theseus she had believed, but he had been the one to shatter her naiveté, and in the aftermath she had re-forged herself into something harder and more impervious. She had smiled or laughed at every such declaration—not until Dionysius had she believed it again. When he said it, it was no mere ploy to get between her legs; it hadn't been even on that first night, when both of their minds had been firmly on his bed. And it was no claim of ownership, either, the way it was with some men. So many said a woman was beautiful merely as a way of bragging that they had won some shiny new prize; that _they_were special because they owned something others would admire.

No, with Dionysius the common compliment was something else entirely. He told her she was beautiful because he had seen a truth he couldn't help but admit. Because looking at her made him feel something inexpressible, and the only way to come close was to say, in a simple and unavoidable way, that she was better than all of the great paintings, golden landscapes, finely wrought jewelry, composed music, and distant stars _combined_ in his eyes. _She was beautiful_ and he was moved. Because it was less about having and more about being, and sharing. He felt privileged in her presence, and knowing that he admired her—_all_of her—made her feel more confident than a dozen awards.

She pulled her hair back from her shoulders, fine-boned hands sweeping up the messy black curls, and his breath hitched audibly in his throat as he watched the muscles move beneath her skin. The rhythm of her arms and shoulders as she lifted and pulled, the rise and fall of her breasts. Knowing that she, a mortal woman turned something else entirely, could have such an effect on him was a thrill. With just a turn she could leave him breathless and in her thrall.

"Sugar," he managed to say in a hoarse whisper, licking his suddenly dry lips, "I hope you're planning to follow through, because I'm reaching the point of no return here."

Ariadne let the hair fall back and leaned forward over him in a decidedly feline stretch, arms framing her pale breasts. Her hands brushed over the obvious bulge. She arched a dark eyebrow. He bit his lip. She smiled, and it was a predator's smile. Full of teeth and promise.

Her hands hovered over the drawstring of his sweatpants for a moment, before moving upwards. Slowly, to the point of infuriating distraction, she pushed back the faded t-shirt. The exposed skin of his stomach immediately goosebumped in the cooler air. Then she was leaning even closer to press a feather-light kiss to the spot just above his navel. He sighed audibly, hands clenching at his sides, as she continued up over the ridges of his abs and ribs. She took hold of the shirt with both hands, balling the fabric up between her fingers as she pulled—he lifted his arms obediently. The shirt disappeared into the darkness beyond the bed. He didn't follow its trajectory, far too focused on her mouth at his collarbone.

She looked up with eyes huge and luminous, chin resting against his chest. Her expression altered in the blink of an eye, shifting from pure seduction to something unreadable but intense. He opened his mouth around the question, but her fingers pressed against his lips in a quelling gesture. They lay there silently as the tip of her finger traced his bottom lip.

"…Why me?" she said finally in little more than a whisper. It still shattered the warm silence.

She'd asked the same question once before, when he proposed. It had spilled from her in the initial shock before the "Yes!" could rush forward. Because for all of their serious talk about relationships and love, and despite the more than heated tussles between (and on, and without) sheets, a rather large part of her had never expected it to last. She was a woman made to be abandoned and forgotten; or so it had always felt. Before.

And wasn't that what her life had become? Before and after. There had been a separating line drawn in the sand, and that line had been Dionysius. Before had been disappointment. Loneliness. An echoing emptiness that nothing would ever fill. A longing for the things everyone else seemed to take for granted: a home, a family that would care and support her, a sense of belonging.

Now? After? There was contentment. Moments of joy. Excitement. Public and private success. A place she could call her own—in a beautiful building, in a good man's heart. And while the Olympians could be worse than a bag full of cats, with their in-fighting and petty jealousies, they were still a _family_. People who would intervene if things went bad, and took an interest in one another's lives. Finally, _finally_, she'd found a place—as mad as it was—where she felt like she belonged. Fit in.

A part of her wondered when she'd wake up.

Another hoped she never would.

"Ariadne," he said quietly, hands sliding up her arms, reassuringly real and firm. He used her name so rarely; this never bothered her. She loved the names he'd given her, and she'd always thought her birth name a bit unwieldy. But when he _did_use it, it was always softly spoken. Her name was safe in his mouth.

The answer he gave her last time had been cheeky and very, very him. "Because I love you and those mile-long legs, gorgeous! Because I want to wake up to that beautiful smile every morning. And I can't even _imagine_going out on the town with anyone else on my arm any more!"

It had been enough in that moment because she'd see the warm glow in his eyes, and knew it was more serious than that. There hadn't been a need for deep sincerity in that joyous, jubilant flash.

Now…

"I love you," he said. Paused. Swallowed. He'd never said it in that tone. "Before… I didn't think I wanted to. Love someone. Not the way I love you. Before, I wanted sex and fun. End all, be all. I wanted to make life a never-ending party. Hangovers and regrets and morning afters were for chumps. I wanted cups that were never dry, ladies that were always smiling, neon lights, and loud music. I knew what I wanted. I went for it.

"The first time I felt doubt was with you. Because I suddenly realized how empty things were in the shallow end. Parties are all well and good, but they're better when you've got a real reason to celebrate. When you've got someone to celebrate _with_. And you… You were the first person I didn't want to disappoint. The first person I worried about, and wanted to truly impress. I care about you. All of you. I think about you _all the time_, to the point of distraction. I wonder what you're thinking, feeling, doing—I dream about you. About us. About how good it feels to have someone to share everything with, from the most trivial to the profound. I had fun before you, sure, I'll admit that. But I wasn't _happy_until I met you. I don't ever want to lose that. I don't think I could bear that."

He stopped abruptly. Gasped a breath. And she saw the glint at the corners of his eyes.

She'd seen him passionate. Exuberant. Furious. Exhausted. Sarcastic.

She'd never seen him cry.

Heartbeat thunderous in her ears, she kissed him. Tried to impress the full force of her emotions on hot, bruising lips. Wrapped her arms around him, flesh to flesh, and could almost hear the music thrumming between their bodies. She was all jazzy rhythm; he was the guiding drumbeat. Her hair tangled and knotted around his clutching hands but she didn't mind the pain because all that mattered was being as close to him as possible.

She clung to his neck and shoulders as his leg hooked hers and his hips twisted; she rolled, carried by his momentum, and he caught her gasp on his tongue. His hands slid down her sides, leaving fevers in his wake. The last of their clothing joined the sheets on the floor. The pillows followed suit. Her hair was spread across the mattress as she dug her fingers into the curves of his shoulders. She _yearned_ for him in a way that was overpowering and almost frightening; desire this consuming should be impossible, and the tiniest sliver of her that was still sane and rational wondered if _this_wasn't part of immortality. The taste of forever on his skin. More intoxicating than the strongest wine.

His hand at her hip slid down and in, curving around her thigh. She bucked up at the touch, already balancing on a tripwire, and didn't try to bite down on the whimper that escaped her. His mouth smiled against her throat and she felt the edge of his teeth scrape her skin. He touched her in a way that made every sensation feel startlingly new, as if he were discovering her buttons for the first time.

"Dionysius," she moaned, and if her name was rare in his mouth, his was almost unheard of from hers. It sent a jolt through him, the fizzy kick of champagne.

He thrust. She arched. Her thigh pressed tightly against his hip. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hands digging into his back and shoulders, and held on for dear life. Her mouth was at his ear and he heard every hitch in her breath, every moan. He was wrapped in her, buried in her, drowning in her, there was nothing _but_her in the universe. The scent of lilacs clinging to her skin. The sharp red nails that bit into his back. The wild echo of her heart against his chest. The feel of her wrapped around him like a second, more precious skin. Everything was slick and tight and warm and soft, and how he loved making her sigh like that…

"Ariadne, look at me."

She turned her head and tried to focus beyond the dizzying pleasure and pressure. Her pale eyes were glazed and half-lidded; his were dark, full of hot, hungry promise. He wanted to see her face at the last moment, watch as the world crumbled for just one brief flash.

"Dionysius," she said, voice trembling to match their bodies. "Forever."

"Forever."

She said his name again, but it dissolved into a scream. Everything went black and white in the flood of the aftermath. But it didn't last, the too-bright-burn against the eyelids, the staccato heartbeats and labored breathing, the uncontrollable shakes and shivers. Like all things in the mortal world it passed in a matter of moments. Only they remained. As they always would, she now realized in a full and dizzying way. The experiences would be finite but they would also be infinitely repeatable, infinitely changeable, and only he would be her constant. Her tether between the everyday and the vastness of immortality.

He had practically collapsed over her in the last spasm. His head now rested heavily on her shoulder, his breath hot against her neck with his legs draped over hers, and she relished the way it felt. Every bit of tension had been erased and his entire body had relaxed into warm satisfaction. He mumbled drowsily as she shifted slightly, his arms tightening to keep her close, and she thought—funnily enough—of a big cat purring in the sun.

"How typical," she murmured fondly, combing her fingers through his thick, damp hair, shaping it into peaks and swirls. "How like a man, to fall asleep right after."

"Maybe I'm just regrouping," he said, voice muffled against her skin.

She didn't dream again.

That night, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

_She lives in a house of secrets; he's promised to slay the monsters. How many answers will she get? How many promises will he keep?_  
"How can you promise that?" She looked into his face, saw what she thought was heartfelt sincerity. But how little she knew people, how naïve she was when it came to trust… She yearned for this young man, body and heart; he had sparked something within her that she had never expected to feel. But she knew nothing about him beyond a name—and how could she believe anything he had said? (3,956 words)

Her father said it was a phase. That _he_ was a phase. An act of rebellion. He said she would regret it.

It was the only bit of truth he ever gave her.

She remembered as a child the crying in the night. The strange ship that slipped into the dock at the foot of the cliffs. The shadowy human-shaped cargo disembarking, fettered together like cattle.

When she asked her father about them the next day, he told her she had been dreaming. It had all been a nightmare.

Of course it was. What else could it have been?

She had grown up in a house of secrets. There were rooms that were barred to her. Sounds that were never explained. She had never known a mother. And so many questions went unanswered.

There was a foreboding, an ominous sense of guilt and shame, attached to her family name. They were rich and that was obvious—the dozens of empty rooms full of statues and ornate furniture, the impressive yacht floating in the harbor, the expensive silks and leathers her father gave her to wear. But there was no joy or happiness that came with such wealth, and the house felt as if it belonged to ghosts. The empty halls seemed to whisper as she passed; the dining hall echoed.

Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like, if she hadn't been an only child to a single father.

Later she discovered that she had never been an only child. And that had been even worse.

There was a village beyond the rocks, huddled in the lees of the sheer cliffs. The day her last nanny disappeared she walked the nearly empty streets, a hopeful and tremulous smile on her face. She knew there were children her age in the village—she had heard their laughter on the wind. And what she wanted more than any hard candy or porcelain doll was a _friend_.

But the adults whisked their children away before she could call out a greeting. There was black suspicion on every face that turned towards her. Doors were closed, windows were latched, and every conversation was abruptly silenced as she passed.

She went home alone, choking back tears of confusion and rejection. And then she turned to her piano, her violin, her voice. If she had to be alone, she did not have to sit in silence.

The night the next ship came she was old enough to know better. Old enough to know it was no dream. And old enough to sneak out of her room, down the halls, and through the side door without her father or the servants seeing her.

She crept down to the dock, hid behind rocks, and watched as fourteen young men and women her own age were led from the ship. The boys were in jeans and t-shirts, grubby sneakers. The girls wore sundresses, summer skirts, sandals. Many were crying, or their eyes were red from earlier tears. Some wore stony faces with tightened jaws, as if resigned to something terrible.

But one of the men stood apart from the rest. There was something glittering about him—a fierce light in his pale eyes. From that first look she was struck. And when his eyes caught hers she saw the same shiver run through him. She wanted to run from the rocks, to catch his hand in hers and tear him away from the sad processional she didn't understand.

But a voice whispered in her heart, and she kept hidden until they had passed. And then? Then she followed after, and saw which door they were taken through.

"What is this all about?"

"How can you not know?" a girl cried, hands clutching at her skirt. "You live here! He's your father!"

"He tells me nothing—the house is all I've ever known."

"Your father is a cursed man," he said, the one who already had a finger on her heart. He spoke with such firm conviction, such confidence, that the others took strength from him. They stood straighter, and the muffled sobs stopped. "He angered someone very important years ago and now he's being punished. Beneath us is a maze, a deadly prison, and at its heart is a monster. We've been sent to appease its appetite."

"That's utter nonsense," she tried to laugh, but the sound died in her throat. "What you say is madness."

"This used to be a sunny place, full of beauty. But it's been corrupted by greed and betrayal. Everything is blackened now, made dark and hollow. You must have noticed this."

She shook her head as if to deny him, as if to erase the damning words. She turned to leave and he caught her by the wrist, staying her in midstep.

"What's your name?"

"…Ariadne."

"Mine's Theseus. And I've sworn to stop all of this. I promised to solve the maze and destroy whatever lives at its center. You could help me, Ariadne—help _us_."

"I…"

"What do you want, more than anything?"

She bit her lip, hair in her eyes. "To leave. To get as far away from this place as I can. I want to go somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can start over from scratch."

"If you help me, I'll make that wish come true. I'll take you with me when I go, and you'll never have to return."

"How can you promise that?" She looked into his face, saw what she thought was heartfelt sincerity. But how little she knew people, how naïve she was when it came to trust… She yearned for this young man, body and heart; he had sparked something within her that she had never expected to feel. But she knew nothing about him beyond a name—and how could she believe anything he had said?

And then she turned and ran, her arm slipping from his grasp, the heavy door thudding closed behind her.

That night she dreamed—or was it remembered? She was a small child again, barely toddling, and weaving around many legs as she searched for her father. There was so much activity in the courtyard, dozens of men carrying stones and beams of wood and tools down into an immense hole in the ground. Her father was watching over all with a thunderous look on his face, and it had frightened her.

So she fled, running down to the rocky beach, away from her angry father and the confusing noises of construction. And on the beach she found him, sitting on the edge of the tide, feet splashed by the incoming waves. He had a huge spool of red string in his hands that he rolled between his palms. And all the while he stared out across the ocean, his shoulders slumped with an invisible weight.

She had never seen him before, but he looked kind and sad. His bushy white beard made her think of dandelions gone to seed, and she approached him with her usual childish fearlessness.

"And you would be the little princess," he said with a bittersweet smile, as she came to stand beside him. "Ariadne, is it?"

She nodded, and thrust a well-suckled thumb into her mouth.

"My name is Daedalus."

"Why are you here?" she asked curiously.

"I designed something for your father. Those men?" He nodded back where she had come from. "They are building it right now."

"What is it?"

"A puzzle. It's supposed to keep something dangerous locked away, to keep sweet little girls like you safe." But there was a shadow behind his eyes, and even then she knew he wasn't telling her the truth. It was the same look her father wore when she asked questions.

"Oh," she said simply. "You look awful sad," she added after a moment's thought, and went back to sucking her thumb.

Daedalus sighed. "I am, princess. But I'm doing the best I can."

He looked back out at the waves. She followed his gaze and saw how stormy the ocean was becoming. Each crest was topped with white foam, and the sky was turning a sickly green. There was a tempest approaching.

"Okay. Bye," she said, giving the old man an impulsive hug around the shoulders, brushing her lips against his whiskery cheek. "Don't cry too much."

"Wait, princess," he said suddenly as she turned to run back to the house. He held out the spool of blood-red yarn. "I think you should have this. You might need it someday."

When she awoke the darkness was almost stifling, and the sea outside was deceptively silent. There was no storm coming—it had only been a dream. Or a long-forgotten memory. But she knew in her bones that the young man and his companions were no figment of her imagination. They were still downstairs, in that hidden room, waiting for something awful. Something in the maze.

She abandoned her bed and began opening drawers, rummaging through them with a speed born of an abrupt decision.

When her hands closed around the spool, she knew what she had to do.

How her father knew, or suspected, she never quite figured out. But when she crept down the marble staircase, one hand tight around the wrought iron banister, he was waiting at the foot of it.

"Where are you going, Ariadne?"

She straightened her back. Lifted her chin. Slipped the hand that held the spool behind her hip and away from his prying eyes.

"I'm going to _do_ something, Father."

"You have no idea what you're mixing yourself up—"

"No, I don't. Because you've never been honest with me. You've never respected me enough to give me a single straight answer."

"Ariadne, don't meddle with this. Everything I've done has been to keep you safe."

"Bullshit!" she screamed, and it was the first time she had ever raised her voice in anger. The heat of her outrage thrummed through her bones, lit her up from within like a terrible fire. "You've never cared about me. Not in the slightest! A real father would spend time with his daughter, would comfort her when she cried. He would encourage her talents. You've been a ghost to me, a mere _idea_ of fatherhood. All I've ever wanted is to be loved, to have a friend, to share my thoughts with another—and you've denied me even that."

"So what's your plan then?" he asked, eyes shadowed, voice hollow. "You'll kill yourself to spite me?"

"No, I'm going to help. I'm going to uncover this huge mystery of yours. And then I'm leaving." Her heart was so loud in her ears, she spoke without hesitation. "Theseus has promised to get me away."

"Theseus? He's here?"

"Yes. Just arrived on your ship, in fact. The ship you told me was only a nightmare."

"Are you a complete fool, daughter? I know about the man behind the name. He's a scoundrel, a cad, a man who wants nothing but glory and fame. You know nothing about him."

"I know him as well as I know you," she replied, face set and calm. "And I'd rather take my chances with him."

He never moved. Never called after her to stop, never spoke a word of apology. The last words her father ever said to her were quiet and distant, as if he were speaking to himself.

"You'll regret it."

How she knew she never knew, but Theseus trusted her—and in that moment, that was all that mattered. He took the spool, tossed it before him into the winding labyrinth, watched as it unwound in an uncanny way, leading ever downwards.

"You said there's a monster down there," she murmured in that last hesitation.

"Yes. It's a complicated story, but I'll tell you everything once we're away from here."

"How will you kill it? If it's truly so terrible?"

"I'm not an ordinary man," he said, and while there was an air of a boast it was said with such conviction. "One of the few gifts my true father left me with. I'm sure this thing has never faced someone like me before."

He took her hand. Lifted it to his lips. Pressed a chaste, knightly kiss across her knuckles.

"I'll be right back, princess."

He disappeared into the maze, straight-backed and firm footed.

She stood at the entrance for what felt an eternity, ears straining to catch any sound of victory or defeat. With each second that ticked by, she felt a cold pit in her stomach grow larger. She had laid all of her hope on Theseus' shoulders. If he failed now, when she had severed all ties with her father, when she had dared to meddle in affairs she didn't understand… What would the repercussions be? Would she ever leave this island?

The tension had become too much. With a single glance back at the worried men and women huddled in the corner, she followed the crimson thread into the labyrinth.

Her footsteps were painfully loud in her ears and she feared each twist and turn. Everything was echoes and shadow; each corner could contain a vision of horror. But she pushed on, driven by her need for answers.

After what felt like an hour, she finally saw a dim flicker of electric, yellow light. And then came the sounds of bellowing, of scraping and crashing and frantically gasped breaths. She quickened her pace, took the turns at a reckless speed.

What she burst into rocked her as physically as a punch. Theseus had not exaggerated when he'd called it a monster—taller than a man, heavily sinewed and a dark, terrible blood-red, covered in coarse hair and cords of muscle. It had a man's chest, and a man's arms, but the feet that scored deep ruts into the concrete floor were cloven, and its head… Above the shoulders it was hardly human. Misshapened, horned: it even snorted and wheezed like a furious bull.

And before it, the object of its enraged focus, was Theseus. His shirt was torn, his forehead gouged, and blood ran in thick streams into his shockingly blue eyes. He grappled with the creature, meeting it hand for hand, impossibly small and resilient in comparison.

His eyes flickered up and caught Ariadne's. He dug his feet in and pushed with a roar of his own, and the beast actually _took a step back_.

But it was clear to her: this was a battle Theseus was going to lose. All of his spectacular strength was for naught. This bull-headed monster had untold depths of rage and power. Even if Theseus succeeded in killing it, it would take the last ounce of him—this could only end in a dual death.

Ariadne opened her mouth, threw all of her naïve hope and desire into her voice, and aimed it at the battle like a lance. The pure, shattering notes pierced the heated scuffle, and as her song reached its crescendo, the beast closed its torch-like red eyes and shook its head, as if to rid itself of a troublesome pest.

It was all Theseus needed. He leapt forward, arms closing around the thing's barrel of a throat. And before it could fill its lungs again he had squeezed and twisted, wrenching upwards with all of his might.

The snap of bones reverberated from the walls in the sudden silence, her song spent. It had served its purpose. And she felt a glow of satisfaction and relief as the monster sank to its knees, tongue lolling from its gaping, foam-flecked mouth. Theseus released it with a grunt, pushing it away as he stepped back.

"S'pose I should say thanks," he said, when they had both regained their voices. "Seems all I needed was the right distraction."

"You can save the thanking, just so long as you keep your promise," she said. Never had she felt this sort of elation. It was as if a door had stood before her, hidden in shadow and locked, and she'd only now discovered the key that fit. Everything felt new and thrilling; this was a turning point, an epiphany, just as she'd read in so many books. Tomorrow would be a new dawn for her, the start to a new life.

And she had finally _done something_ worth the warmth of pride. Her father had only sought to contain this beast—but she had helped to kill it. She had done something worthy and heroic and she now knew how the knights of Camelot had felt in the aftermath of battle.

Then Theseus stepped closer, wet with blood and sweat but golden and gleaming in her eyes. He took her hand again, laced his fingers through hers, and smiled.

She had never felt so wanted, so appreciated.

It was on the ship, out at sea, that she discovered the true nature of need.

The others were asleep below deck, exhausted by their previous terror and current relief, spent by their lavish praise and gratitude to the returning heroes. And she had been standing at the prow, looking out at the gentle sway of the waves, sea salt in her raven hair.

When he touched her shoulder, she knew with a shiver what would come next. It was as if she had always known it would be this way, on the chilled deck of a sailing boat, the spray of the ocean on their skin. And when he touched her, fingertips tracing hot circles across her belly, her breasts, she knew this was hardly the first for him as it was for her.

But she didn't care in that heady moment of naïve desire and awakening. She welcomed everything, drawing it in greedily, drowning in him as if she had always been dying of thirst. _This_ was real, _this_ was what it felt like to live, _this_ was something she had craved so long she had forgotten the name for it. He was the candle. She was the flame. And together they burned and melted, shifting into one being of stuttering breath and steam and heat.

There was pain, there was ecstasy, and as he thrust, stroked, bit, kissed, she was overwhelmed. The past was gone, the present was intoxicating, and the future became a heady potential of bliss. She wrote her name across his back with her nails, laid her claim to him as he did the same to her, and arched with yearning even as tears stung her eyes.

She finally felt something beyond empty loneliness, and she screamed it to the heavens.

After, lying in his arms, she traced the bandage across his forehead with one finger. He winced dramatically, the long-suffering hero.

"How did you hold your own against such a monster?" she asked.

"Like I told you, sweetheart: I'm no mere man. My father is a god."

She laughed at that, but stopped when the laughter wasn't echoed in his eyes. "…Truly?"

"Which makes me a demi-god. There are perks that have been useful. Strength, stamina…"

Later, even more breathless, she asked the question she had long wanted an answer to, yet had equally feared: "Why my father?"

"He angered _my_ father, by going back on a deal he had sworn to uphold. In punishment, your mother paid the ultimate price. She died, heartbroken and shattered, but not before she delivered that monster into the world."

Ariadne pulled away, sat up and clutched her dress to her chest. "You can't mean that that… That was my brother in the labyrinth?"

"Not truly—it was a blight. It was barely even human."

"I always knew my father was a hard man," she said finally, allowing Theseus to draw her back down beside him. "But I didn't know he could be capable of such cruelty. To keep something like that, hidden away and alive—to feed it… It's too terrible to think about."

"Then don't," he said firmly, kissing her neck. "Don't waste any more of your time thinking about him. Think about what you'll do next—what we'll do next."

She looked up at him and saw a dream come true. He had given her the answers she had always needed, the validation she had long craved, the companionship of the body, an ear open to her wishes and a hand that took her away from everything she had hated. She knew this had to be love she was feeling, that storied thing she had read about in hundreds of books, what all of the songs were ultimately about.

"Do you love me?"

He looked down at her, eyes glowing ice blue in the starry darkness. All of her hope and need was laid bare, glittering and brittle in her face. So he told her what she wanted, needed, to hear.

"Of course I do. And when we land, I'll prove it to the world—marry me, Ariadne."

Her heart leaped in her chest, full of wild abandon. "Yes!" She tangled her hands in his hair, kissed him with tears on her cheeks. Her joy was incandescent.

The last thing he gave her was the bitter taste of defeat. The last thing he taught her was to never pin her hopes on the golden hero—that the fairy tales weren't always happily ever afters.

When she awoke she was confused. The air was dry and she couldn't smell the sea; she was lying on a bed, not a rocking deck. Even the sunlight streaming through the window was a different shade, more yellow than slate gray.

She pushed back the sheets and her eyes landed on the bedside table. There were two things on it: a credit card and a black mobile phone.

Ariadne picked the second up, looked at the contact list. There was only one, and of course it said **THESEUS**. She selected "call", fingers shaking.

It took an eternity for him to answer. His voice was calm, almost impersonal. "Hello, Ariadne."

"Theseus, where are you?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I had to go. A hero's work is truly never done."

"When will you be back?"

"Can't really say for sure."

"…You will come back, won't you?"

"Ariadne, remember when I asked you what you wanted more than anything? And you said you wanted to go somewhere new, start over fresh, make a different life for yourself?"

"Yes."

"I promised you I would make that wish come true. And I kept that promise. Your father will never reach you again, and I've left you the money you'll need to begin a new life. This is your chance—you should take it."

"But, Theseus, _I love you_. You said you loved me."

"Yeah, I did. But I've loved a lot of women, sweetheart."

The phone clicked and he was gone. She sat for several minutes in stunned shock, a painful lump in her throat. She had thought she had known betrayal, thought that her life in that empty house with an absent father had hardened her to that pain. But this was the unexpected blow, and as such it hurt worse than anything else.

Slowly, in steady increments, reality began to seep back into the room. Somewhere outside on the busy street below a truck began to honk. Outside that window was a whole other world she had never seen before. People who didn't know her face, her name, her past. There would be no doors locked on her any more.

She clenched her teeth and tightened her jaw. With the phone in one hand and the credit card in the other, she left the hotel room and stepped out into the sunlight of a new day.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course he'd like another one. And another after that. They _say_ there are no stupid questions, but…

The night's festivities had started by the pool. Apollo had brought his latest 'squeeze' (funny how the boy's grasp of slang had somehow gotten stuck in the 1950s) along, the Hungarian high diver Vivian Vintrenko. She was a friend of his sister's—it seemed he only met women through his sister, which was hilarious considering Artemis' opinion of men who constantly ogled her friends—and she was the embodiment of the phrase 'legs that went on forever', if you got his drift. She was showing off her swan dive to great applause and admiration.

Hermes was showing the cute little pickpocket he'd picked up the day before some tricks with a set of interconnected rings. Trying to, at least. The four glasses of scotch he'd already downed in rapid succession were taking their toll, and the rings kept slipping out of his fingers.

Pan ran by at full tilt, utterly unconcerned with the wet tile, his glazed eyes firmly focused on the giggling blonde he was chasing.

Dionysius watched everything, sighed with a contented smile, leaned back in his wicker lounge chair, and lifted the curly-cue straw of his tropical cocktail to his lips.

"Where do you find all of these women, Uncle?" a laughing voice said suddenly above him. "Is there a 24-hour convenience store down the street that stocks them for you?"

He lowered his sunglasses and peered up at the blonde woman over the frames. "They just… flitter in. Like moths to a flame."

Psyche laughed, a throaty, full-bodied laugh. She was barefoot and wearing a short white cotton robe belted at the waist, her pale hair falling over her shoulders. "That sounds like a dangerous situation for them."

"Oh, they like the burn."

"Is that so?" She laughed again. "A quick warning, then: Artemis should be home in an hour, and it might be a good idea to make yourselves scarce. She's had a rough day of it, apparently, and she'll likely be looking for any excuse to start slapping."

He was suddenly the picture of innocence, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and red swim trunks notwithstanding. Even with his hair standing out at rakish angles, still damp from his quick swim earlier, he could have fooled anyone who didn't know that he was the God of Wine and Passion. "What reason would she have to be angry with _us_?" he asked sweetly, fluttering his dark eyelashes.

"Well, there's the fact that Apollo has his tongue down her best friend's throat," Psyche said with an arched eyebrow. "It's just a suggestion, Uncle."

She turned on her heel and walked to the far side of the pool, untying her belt as she went. His eyes followed her utterly unbidden, moving of their own accord, to watch as she slipped out of her robe, carefully straightened her black bikini, threw back her hair, and dove into the deep end of the pool.

"Stop that," he told himself with a shake of his head. "She's a niece."

"Ah," another part of himself countered coyly, "But only by marriage."

When she resurfaced, smoothing back her wet hair as the water rippled over her breasts, he realized he was licking his lips. His mind wandered to an iconic scene from an 80's teen movie and for a moment he stared as Psyche stepped out of the pool, dripping wet as she began to untie the top of her bikini—

"No, no, no," he said firmly, cutting the fantasy off before it got up any more steam, setting his drink down decisively and standing. "Enough of that. Not going to think about _that_. Off limits, entirely. Boys," he called to the others. "I suggest we take the party elsewhere."

There was a chorus of complaints and groans.

"What the hell, Unc!" Apollo shouted from the pool, his arm around Vivian Vintrenko's waist. "We were just getting started!"

"We can get started elsewhere," he said, pulling off his sunglasses and tossing them onto his chair. "At the risk of sounding like a certain notorious womanizer, I suggest we suit up, boys. Meet in the lobby in twenty: we're going club hopping."

"Have fun, Uncle," Psyche called, her arms folded on the edge of the pool, a sloppy smile on her damp face. He barely glanced over, throwing a careless wave over his shoulder as he led the retreat.

A moment later she climbed out of the pool, picked up her robe, and fished her mobile out of the pocket.

"All clear," she said with a great deal of satisfaction. "Dionysius practically ran out."

When Eros walked in ten minutes later, his towel over one shoulder, she was stretched out in Dionysius's abandoned lounge chair wearing his sunglasses.

"How'd you do it?" he asked, bending for a long, lingering kiss.

"Womanly wiles and simple psychology," she grinned, pulling off the glasses and biting on an earpiece. "We've got the place to ourselves for the rest of the night."

"Goody goody," he murmured, slipping into the chair, sliding against her slick skin. "Best enjoy it while we can, hmm?"

The first club was a disappointment. The music wasn't loud enough, and it didn't have enough spirit—you couldn't feel it in your bones. The bartender didn't know how to make a good zombie, and two of the models they'd picked up left in a disgusted huff.

Dionysius wasn't in the mood to fix things with a wave of his hand, so they piled into the limo for the next stop.

The second club was a bit too much, even for Dionysius, which was _saying_ something. Far too much humanity pressed together, too much sweat, too much desperation. Fifteen minutes later they were back in the limo, Pan complaining that Dionysius had ruined the entire night when he suggested leaving the Lito for club hopping.

The God of Wine simply nodded at the stoic driver. The limo leapt into traffic with an abrupt squeal of tires that threw Pan backwards into his father, who had just leaned in to kiss his pretty pickpocket and promptly bumped teeth with the unlucky girl. The limo's interior erupted with screams, followed be the sharp snap of a slap, and Pan kept his mouth shut for the duration of the evening.

Luckily, he didn't have anything else to complain about. The third club of the night was a perfect median of the previous two. The lighting was low and soothing, the music not quite deafening and of a suitably soulful quality, and the scarred mahogany bar was varnished with the patina of several years and thousands of interesting stories. The group dispersed to mingle with the other patrons, Apollo and Vivian immediately latching onto a like-minded quartet of athletically-built men and women who were, judging by the excited shouts, great fans of theirs.

Dionysius made his way to the bar, flashing thousand kilowatt smiles at everyone he passed. One recipient stumbled over her heels and nearly knocked over her boyfriend, who was quick to grab hold of her arm possessively and guide her straight out the door.

When Dionysius swung onto a stool, primly unbuttoning his suit jacket, the attentive bartender was at his elbow immediately.

"What can I get for you tonight?" the bald twenty-something asked, rolling a quarter across his bronzed fingers in a very Hermes-like way.

"What's your specialty?"

"Everyone says I make a mean mojito."

"I'll start with one of those, then," Dionysius said with an indulgent smile. "And a vodka martini, dirty."

"Shaken, not stirred?" the bartender asked with a smile.

"Why the hell not. I'm feeling like a licensed killer tonight," he replied with a wolfish, toothy smile.

"So what's your story?" the bartender said conversationally, pouring both drinks simultaneously with panache, tapping the last drops into their respective glasses before flipping the shakers through the air, catching them deftly, and tossing them under the bar into the basket of used glasses. He skewered a pair of olives out of the jar with a beribboned toothpick and dropped the affair into the martini before sliding the glasses forward.

"You've got style," Dionysius said approvingly, sipping at his mojito. "And everyone's right—mighty fine mojito you've made here. As for my story? Oh, it's nothing you haven't heard a thousand times before. Flash bastard with too much money and time, so I rid myself of both with the judicious application of booze and beautiful women."

The bartender chuckled. "I admit, I don't often serve flash bastards with too much time or money. Plenty of young executive types—you know, suits with briefcases and pinched faces—or bubbly co-eds that travel in pastel-colored packs. You're cut from a different cloth than most of my customers."

"What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Carlos. And yours, vice versa?"

He tipped back his glass, crunched on the shards of ice. "Dionysius."

Carlos whistled. "Helluva name. Thought that one went out of style a few hundred years ago."

"Yeah, well," he grinned, raising his martini in a salute. "My parents were _real_ old school."

"Hey now," Carlos said, realization dawning across his darkly tanned face. "You're not _the_ Dionysius, are you? The one who lives at the Lito? Zeus Olympian's brother?"

"On the nosy, got it in one," he affirmed, tapping the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck me. Never thought I'd see the day when a real celebrity would try one of my mojitos."

"You follow racing much? Cause that's my nephew Apollo over there," Dionysius said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the raucous laughter without bothering to turn. "Might give you an autograph if you say you like his hair."

"Fuck me sideways," was all Carlos could say to that second revelation.

"Think I'll have another of your famous mojitos, Carlos," Dionysius said, pushing his empty glasses forward. "And what's the house wine?"

"A French Roussanne, last year's vintage."

"A glass of that too, if you please."

"Serious about your alcohol, yeah?"

"It's possibly the only thing I'm _ever_ serious about," Dionysius said with a crooked grin.

There was a squeak a few feet away as someone pulled out a stool, the legs skidding across the lacquered hardwood floor. Dionysius glanced over from the corner of his eye before doing an almost comical double take.

It was a girl. No, not a girl. A _young woman_, he corrected himself. And she was utterly and undeniably _gorgeous_, with loose raven black hair that draped over her bare shoulders. She sat with her arms resting against the bar, her green leather clutch purse lying to the side. She was staring down at her hands as she fussed with her nails.

Nails that were painted dark blue, he noticed. She wore a thick ring on her right thumb that was fashioned like an elaborate knot. There was a diamond-studded hairpin at her right temple. She was wearing a _very_ little black dress that had ribbon straps and black pearl buttons. Her skin was so pale she seemed to be made of porcelain.

Dionysius realized he was staring but didn't bother to stop.

"What can I get you, gorgeous?" Carlos asked with a smile.

She looked up, and her eyes were of a pale green hue that Dionysius hadn't seen since Ireland, 1124. It was also quite apparent that she'd been crying in the immediate past. Somehow the redness and puffy skin made her even more breathtaking, imbuing her ethereal beauty with an earthiness.

"Strongest drink you have," she said in a husky but composed voice that had the lilt of an Irish accent to it. "And a shot of whiskey."

"Numbing some pain?" Dionysius asked casually as she threw back the shot with practiced ease.

"Best way to use booze, don't you think?" she replied.

"Don't know about that," he said. "I'm fond of using booze when I'm happy, too."

"Can't really remember what that feels like. Drinking because I'm happy, I mean." She took a long pull from her bourbon and scotch. "It's been a while."

Dionysius loosened his purple silk tie. "Sorry to hear that. Boyfriend been treating you rough?"

She scoffed, crunching on an ice cube. "As if I could ever call him that. Ex now, if he's anything. The bastard _left_ me here, without a way to get home, and then called to break up with me over the phone. What sort of chickenshit asshole does that?"

"A brainless one, obviously." He motioned for Carlos to refill his wine glass.

"Anyway, I was too good for him. See that now. Bastard couldn't do anything without my help, and now that he's this hot shot with money he thinks he doesn't need me any more. His loss, right?" She bit through another ice cube with a sharp snap.

"Absolutely."

"I'll have what he's having," she told Carlos, pointing at Dionysius's wine glass.

"…This is going to sound like a pick-up line, but believe me, it's not—I have far better ones in my arsenal. Do I know you from somewhere?" Dionysius asked, eyes narrowed and head cocked at an angle. "You look incredibly familiar."

She looked at him for a minute, trying to size him up and failing. "I'm a singer, but I doubt you've heard of me."

"Nightclubs," he said with a satisfied smirk, snapping his fingers. "Cabarets and little places like this. You do a lot of bluesy standards; Billie Holliday, Etta James, Sinatra. Your name's Ariadne, am I right?"

She smiled. "I'm surprised. You don't seem like the sort of guy who'd come to my performances."

"And what sort of guy comes to your performances?"

"Desperate, needy twentysomethings with hero complexes," Ariadne replied with a heavy dash of bitterness. "Goes to show you should always listen to your father. Daddy said he was bad news, but his little girl thought she knew better."

"That is just it," Dionysius said firmly, banging a fist on the bar. "I'm putting my foot down. I refuse to let this infantile pipsqueak ruin your night, sugar. I'm going to cheer you up or my name isn't Dionysius."

"…Your name is Dionysius?"

"…Yes."

"That's quite a name, Steve."

"You're a fan of Humphrey Bogart, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Who isn't?"

"I can just tell you're a girl after my own heart. Carlos! We need a dish of salt, a pair of limes, two shots of tequila, and some Mariachi music, stat!"

"I don't think we have any Mariachi CDs, D."

Dionysius waved his hand with a smile. "Humor me and check the collection, willya?"

Four hours later and Dionysius seemed to have misplaced his tie. Oh, no, there it was. He blew it out of his eyes, raised his glass dramatically, narrowly avoided poking out his eye with the streamer-wrapped straw, and shouted, "BULLSHIT!"

The bar erupted in peals of laughter as Ariadne made a face and was forced to take a drink.

"Okay okay okay okay," he slurred. "Hush now, hush, children. I…." he dragged the word out, glancing from face to attentive face, before finally locking eyes with Ariadne and saying, "…have never worn a dress."

The place fell silent, everyone looking from Dionysius's perfectly composed, serious, studious, serene, impossibly sober face to Ariadne's narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.

"Bullshit," she said finally with a smile.

"Whoops-a-daisy!" He laughed, catching the straw with his lips and taking a long pull as everyone clapped and whooped.

"I hope there're pictures," Ariadne said archly. Apollo nodded enthusiastically until Dionysius shoved him aside playfully.

"People, I hate to have to say this," Carlos shouted apologetically over the din. "But I'm gonna have to kick you all out. It's four AM, and that's closing time. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"Hey now," Pan said above the chorus of disappointed groans. "You stole that from a song, you did!"

"Thanks for the fun, Carlos," Dionysius said, leaning over the bar to slap the man's shoulder. "Will definitely be coming back sometime very soonishly. I'm tellin' everyone I know that Carlos makes the best mojitos. And this is for everything."

Carlos gaped at the wad of cash Dionysius had just slapped into his hand. "Fuck me, uh, thanks, D!"

"After-party at the Lito, and everyone's invited!" Hermes announced with a wide sweep of his arms that ended around the waists of his pickpocket and one of Apollo's new lady friends.

While everyone crawled into the limo, laughing the carefree, brash laughter of the blissfully boozed, Dionysius pulled the tie off his head and shoved it into his pocket, stepping aside.

"Go on ahead without me," he told Apollo with a dismissive wave.

Ariadne stood on the edge of the curb in her strappy heels and tiny dress, arm raised for a taxi. She looked over her arm with a smile as Dionysius joined her.

"Not riding back with everyone, Steve?"

"Nah. No room," he said, pulling a long face. "So how'd I do?"

She lowered her arm and turned to face him. "How'd you do what?"

"With the cheering up. Your night end on a higher note than it began with?"

"Well," she said slowly. "_Technically_, it's not over just yet."

His smile was slow and just a bit devilish. "You've a point there…"

"You really don't strike me as the kind of bloke who'd do yoga," she said after a moment's pause.

"Good for the back," he replied.

"Bet you're all kinds of flexible."

His smile only widened.

In the taxi he asked her what she wanted out of life. Seemed like the thing to do after such a kiss.

"What does anyone want out of life?" she said, toying with the button at his collar. "I want to make real money doing what I love. Which happens to be singing. I want to see the world, I want to find the perfect wine, and I want you to kiss me like that again."

"I always believe in giving a woman what she wants," Dionysius said, slipping his arm around the curve of her waist, pulling her closer.

"I don't know how you can kiss like that after all those drinks you had, Steve," Ariadne said when she caught her breath. "Don't know how you can even form sentences after that many drinks. But I'm not going to question small miracles."

"You're not doing so bad yourself," he observed. "Considering all of those shots."

"It's my Irish constitution," Ariadne laughed.

The taxi slowed, pulling up into the impressive horseshoe drive.

"You live _here_?" she gasped as he helped her out of the car. She stared from the elaborate blue mosaic tile under her heels up to the white marble columns framing the golden double doors. "I mean, I figured you didn't live in a fifteenth-floor walk-up, not in that suit, but this is a bit much."

"It's the family place," Dionysius said by way of explanation. "And my family likes to make a statement. You could say we _invented_ the statement."

Ariadne looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "You're no wallflower yourself."

"Oh no," he agreed amiably. "All flash and little substance, that's me."

"I wouldn't go that far," she said, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. "May have met you only a few hours ago, but you're plenty substantial to me."

"Milady, would you join me for a late night cuppa?" he asked, offering her his arm.

"That would be delightful," she replied with a dazzling smile.

"I'm an impulsive person," she said after he'd given her the tour of the apartment and she'd made several appraising comments regarding his three favorite collections: art, ties, and wine. They were now stretched out on the couch in front of the fireplace, his back against the over-stuffed arm of the sofa and hers against the crook of _his_ arm, the room illuminated solely by the flickering light of the flames and the candles on the side tables.

"That so?" he murmured, brushing a long strand of raven hair behind the curve of her ear.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled slowly. "Thought you might have noticed that. Or is it always this easy for you to pick up women?"

"Well," he said awkwardly, a sudden flash of panic crossing his face.

She laughed softly. "I won't hold it against you, Steve. Anyway, I'm always leaping without looking. It's a habit of mine that I can't break, and sometimes it doesn't end well. I just hope this time I don't hit the ground too hard."

"No broken bones," he promised.

"You're all kinds of nice, d'you know that?" She pressed her body closer, fitting more snugly into the space between them. "Nice to look at, nice to touch. And you've been nice all night, with your funny stories and free booze and sweet smiles. Nicer than any other bloke I've met, especially these past few months."

"Couldn't leave such a lovely vision in distress," he whispered against her hair.

"That makes you more of a hero than any of the other men in my life." She pushed herself up to meet his eyes properly.

"I'm not a hero," he said firmly, sincerely, but with a smile. "I'm a selfish, pleasure-loving bastard. Bad news and a bad boy."

"Maybe I'm a bad girl," she said. "And maybe I like bad boys. The so-called good ones have always fucked me over, and not in the good way." She kissed him, and there was nothing chaste or hesitant about it. In the flickering semi-darkness of the room, the temperature began to rise noticeably.

His lips were tingling when she pulled away for breath, and in the heartbeat of the pause and separation he felt an ache building within him that he had felt very rarely in the past millennia.

Just how many women had he been with? Not even his immortal mind could recall all of the names and faces. Did that make him a cad, a rogue, a womanizer? Mortals would think so, surely, but he was merely following his inherent nature. Being true to himself—and he'd never treated the women in his life poorly or cruelly. They had come, and they had gone, and there had been little animosity or sadness in the partings because they were mortal and he a god and such relationships had to be fleeting.

Something about this woman though, this nightclub singer with a wounded heart and a careless laugh and a way with words who could handle her liquor. She made him feel a welter of emotions he hadn't experienced in over four hundred years, and he was suddenly and overwhelmingly thankful to the sorry bastard who had unknowingly thrown her into his path.

"Sugar, you're sort of incredible," he whispered against her mouth before bridging the tiny distance, his fingers brushing down the length of her arm.

They made it to the bedroom _somehow_, though his pants didn't, carelessly left back in the hall. With the curtains closed everything was pitch black, but being immortal had its infinite perks, and he couldn't stop smiling at how she looked against the white sheets, all breathlessness and wild hair.

And then she somehow took control, one smooth white leg swinging over his, and he found himself staring up at her with that silly smile still on his face. She had the last of his shirt's buttons undone in a heartbeat, and then reached back to unfasten the catch of her black bra.

"You had better fucking call me tomorrow, Steve," she said, shifting her hips oh-so-slightly.

"I can _guarantee_ that," he gasped devoutly.

Ariadne wasn't a choir girl by any stretch of the imagination. She'd made several disreputable beds and slept in them; but she'd never thought of herself as _easy_. She supposed that an outsider (or her father) would have looked down upon this debauched evening of booze and sex with an almost complete stranger—that most people would be very disapproving and shake their heads at her and label this a desperate rebound after a bad relationship.

But she didn't care. Truly, honestly: she didn't give a shit. Because she hadn't felt this happy, this good, in _a long time_, and because Dionysius had said wonderful things without a trace of disingenuousness or arrogance, and because the whole evening had just felt _right_ for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on.

This was no rebound, no desperate one-night stand, and somehow she knew that he knew it, too.

And when he kissed the curve of her shoulder; when she drew lines down his back with her blue nails and he only smiled against her skin; when they found that perfect rhythm and the room melted away in an incredible rush of color and heartbeats and breath—she knew she was right where she belonged.

She just never would have imagined it'd be in the bed of a rich bloke named Dionysius.


End file.
